


The Silence of the Turning Earth

by boxparade



Series: All Our Yesterdays: The Codas [10]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Husbands, Kid Fic, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when he wakes from a nightmare like this, he can’t stop shaking until he gets it all out, like he’s releasing all the images and sounds and horrible memories out into the air, so they’re no longer inside him. Brendon just listens, and tries to keep Spencer calm and grounded, and it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silence of the Turning Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the [All Our Yesterdays](http://archiveofourown.org/works/335810) 'verse. Because I can't stop writing codas.
> 
> Can be read as stand-alone.
> 
> Also, this is actually probably maybe going to be a part of the sequel. Which I started writing. Except it has nothing to do with the main plot of the sequel at all. ;-;

Spencer wakes with a desperate gasp for air, somewhere, just air, because there’s sand everywhere, and it’s in his eyes and his mouth and his nose and his lungs and everything is burning, screaming, dying, and—

“Spence!”

Spencer jerks back at the shock of the sound, too clear and too close and he opens his eyes wide, absorbing the darkness for a moment before he makes out the shape of a face in the moonlight, and he’s—he’s…

“Spencer, it’s me. It’s Brendon. You’re home.”

Spencer feels his breath draw out longer and longer, and his heart stops beating so frantically in his chest, and he breathes in deep and can’t smell gunpowder, or burning flesh, or gas. He’s not in Afghanistan, he’s in Vegas. It’s not the Taliban staring at him, it’s his husband. He’s not laying on sand, or dirt, or stone, in some hovel in the middle of a firefight, while the walls shake with the force of the IEDs, and an untrained citizen-doctor pokes at the shrapnel holes in his chest and his leg and forces alcohol down his throat until he’s drunk enough not to feel his skin being torn open.

Spencer draws a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and clutches his hands in the front of Brendon’s T-shirt. He doesn’t even have to ask anymore; Brendon just moves closer to him, so Spencer can curl in on himself and press his forehead against Brendon’s chest, listening for the sound of his heartbeat. Gentle arms reach around him slowly, one steadying itself between Spencer’s shoulder blades, the other drawing deft fingers through Spencer’s hair, rhythmically.

“Which one?” Brendon asks, after enough time has passed. It takes a moment for the sound to solidify into words in Spencer’s mind, but he remembers to breathe and presses himself closer to Brendon as he shakes his head.

“Nothing specific. Just…images. Smells.”

He can feel Brendon hum in understanding, a slight rumble where his chest meets his throat, and he lets himself be lulled by Brendon’s hand in his hair, and the warm pressure on his back.

“Wanna talk?” Brendon asks, after another pause, and Spencer thinks about it. Sometimes, when he wakes like this, he can’t stop shaking until he gets it all out, like he’s releasing all the images and sounds and horrible memories out into the air, so they’re no longer inside him. Brendon never does anything but listen—doesn’t flinch at the twisted things, or pull away from Spencer like he’s scared of him (like Spencer thinks he very well should be, sometimes), or tell Spencer to stop. He just listens, and tries to keep Spencer calm and grounded, and it works.

Other times, Spencer’s okay. Not at a hundred percent, but he’s okay enough to go back to sleep without much trouble. Either that, or he lies awake the rest of the night, but doesn’t mind because he watches Brendon sleep as the light beaming in through the curtains gets stronger. It helps.

He thinks he’s mostly okay. At least, when his eyes are closed, he doesn’t just see a stream of images. He doesn’t think that every creak of the house is a precursor to a bomb going off. He doesn’t scramble away from Brendon, thinking he’s a terrorist, or one of his captors, or just…not Brendon. (Those times, in Spencer’s opinion, are the worst. Brendon always gets over them more quickly than Spencer, but the look in his eyes that first time it happened…)

“No,” he answers finally, and the answer holds steady after he says it. “No, I’m okay,” he breathes, and after another moment, just laying there like that, he slowly rolls away from Brendon, back to his side of the bed. He waits, trying to test things out, like maybe this time he won’t feel so scared just because he’s not physically touching Brendon, but—

Every damn time, the shaking starts again.

He doesn’t even have to say anything this time, Brendon just reaches over until he’s got a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and he says quietly “Come here, idiot,” and Spencer goes. He pretends, every time, that it’s only because Brendon asks, and not because Spencer is going to spend the rest of the night shaking if he doesn’t.

So Spencer goes, for one reason or another, and Brendon pulls until he’s flush against Spencer’s back, one arm curling over his side, hand resting possessively on Spencer’s chest. Spencer cover’s Brendon’s hand with his own, doesn’t complain when Brendon throws his ankle over Spencer’s, and tries to get back to sleep with the sound of Brendon breathing steadily by his ear, and the warmth of Brendon’s body, spreading at his back, reminding him that he’s safe; he’s home. He’s loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Engines" by Snow Patrol.


End file.
